


The Best Sweeteners

by eternal_teapot



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:37:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2504786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_teapot/pseuds/eternal_teapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Mycroft are old friends--just friends--and that's pretty good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Sweeteners

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaned up from an old kink meme fill [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=115966359#t115966359). The book Mycroft and Harry discuss is one I was reading at the time, _An Anatomy of Addiction_ , by Howard Markel.

Harry was already seated and nursing his tea by the time Mycroft showed up, not because Mycroft was ever unexpectedly late for any of their meetings--he was punctual to a fault--but because Harry felt himself well recompensed for being just a few minutes early. Yes, when he beat Mycroft to the club or cafe, he could watch the man stride in the door, casting his eyes about the room in search of Harry, his slender closed umbrella swinging casually from his right hand. Or perhaps its tip would be tapping rhythmically along the ground at Mycroft’s side as he entered. The last time they met the weather had actually justified the black umbrella’s presence, and Harry had watched absently, hiding his smile behind his tea cup as Mycroft neatly collapsed it, shook the excess water from its folds and onto the pavement, and stepped through the door. His fingers absently and efficiently rolled the black canopy out of the way, leaving Mycroft himself immaculate but for the faint sheen of water on his fingertips and along the soles of his shoes.

But it wasn’t raining today, and Harry shook away the memory of his companion wiping the moisture off of his fingertips with the napkin. “Mycroft.”

”Harry.” The handshake was firm and warm as ever, and the men dropped easily into their seats in spite of the long weeks since their last off-the-clock encounter. Mycroft’s post in the government and his own full duties meant that the two of them rarely had overlapping off hours. When they did, those hours were invariably quite early or extremely late. Today it was the former, and the sun had yet to rise. The scattered patrons were an eclectic mix of the up-too-early and the never-been-to-bed, and Harry and Mycroft, as usual, were the only two still immaculate in suits, prepared for the full day to follow.

Once a month or so they gambled on a brew at a random late night cafe or pub in exchange for conversation away from work (given his insistence on variety, Harry suspected that Mycroft was also compiling a personal catalogue of London’s off-hour venues). And, Harry added, he himself was stockpiling mental footage of the inexplicably arresting sight of Mycroft and his umbrella. The fingers of Mycroft’s right hand were currently resting along the slim curve of the wooden handle, just visible above the table top. His thumb would thoughtlessly smooth down the outer edge, and when it reached its utmost extension, the ring and little fingers tucked abruptly in behind to flick the handle around a half turn clockwise, ring glinting in and out of sight like a magician’s coin. The handle would come to rest, and the thumb would begin its slow stroke down the side again.

Harry dragged his eyes back up to Mycroft’s amused expression, hoping that none of his thoughts showed in his expression. The pull was old and comfortable by now, and Harry had let it settle under his skin like the ache in his knee--varying in its severity from day to day but there to stay. He’d refrained from mentioning it not because he knew Mycroft would turn him down (although he likely would, with infinite courtesy), but because he hadn’t gotten where he was by upsetting the cart for what-ifs and might-have-beens. Sometimes, too, the wanting was sweeter than the having.

Mycroft’s eyes were warm and alert despite the hour. “And how is Alexandra?”

“She’s doing well, thank you.” Harry wasn’t sure when exactly they’d crossed over from asking after personal information in the manner of men who make it their business to know everyone--more, to make everyone _believe_ that they know everyone--into asking after one another’s family and health out of genuine interest, but he bet it was somewhere around the time that Mycroft had admitted a relation to the troublesome younger Holmes who was now appearing in the news with increasing frequency.

”Are you close?” Harry had asked.

“Yes, very.” He’d closed the file he’d been reviewing. “Close to becoming an only child.” Passing chats whenever business happened to bring them into one another’s orbits had gradually shifted into meeting regularly outside of work. By unspoken consent, they’d placed a moratorium on topics directly related to politics.

He passed a hard cover volume over the table.

“Finished, then. And how did you find it?”

“The parallels were intriguing and it’s an agreeable enough read. I can’t imagine ever needing to know that much about the history of cocaine, though.”

Mycroft laughed. “One never knows.”

They’d settled into book swaps, among other things, and Harry had taken to quietly amusing himself by watching Mycroft set his cup aside and busy his fingers for long intervals between sips with the umbrella, contemplating Mycroft Holmes reduced to fidgeting like a five-year-old after supper. Yet somewhere over the years, watching those hands move had become as much a danger as a diversion. And he most certainly wasn’t thinking of Mycroft as a five-year-old.

“...Sharron Davies.” Apparently they’d moved onto the opening of the Olympics.

“I was never very interested in track. Running for the sake of running just...”

Mycroft must have been playing spectator, contemplating the games completely divorced from any of the logistical nightmares they entailed. Mmmm. He’d shifted the umbrella in front of him and folded his hands on top, stretching out his fingers in early-morning fatigue. Long shadows from the window created deep crevices between them and threw a silhouette on the floor behind him. The fingers curled back down to nestle on top of the handle, and Harry suddenly imagined them cupping his dick through his trousers and pants. Better--Mycroft could just flip the umbrella around and nudge him with the handle under the table. It would take him forever to get off that way if he could do it at all. Mycroft would work the hook up and down the inside of his thighs before working his way back along the seat of the chair as far as possible. The slow, uneven strokes wouldn’t be enough. He would politely stop every time they ran out of tea to go order another cup, and he’d make sure that Harry drank it to the dregs, still conversing as his bladder filled. The sun would be beginning to rise--they’d both be late for work and Harry would have come all over his trousers.

“...in the javelin throw.”

“The javelin?” He darted a suspicious glance at his friend, but received only a bland look in return. He really should be giving his friend's words more of his attention.

Still, as he wrung the tea from his tea bag and set it aside, he had to admit that there was more appeal this morning in imagining Mycroft surreptitiously wringing an orgasm out of him. He excuses himself to duck into the tiny lav, and undoes his flies in front of the toilet. He must have left the door unlocked, though, because he is just shaking himself off when it swings open again and Mycroft walks in. Harry unconsciously steps back out of Mycroft’s way when the line of the umbrella halts him, smacking along the waistline of his trousers and holding him in place.

He freezes, one hand still tucking his penis back in, and meets Mycroft’s eyes in the mirror. “What--” He swallows. “What are you doing?”

”Really Harry, I think we’re long past the point where we need act coy, don’t you?” And _of course_ Mycroft has known all along what he’s been thinking. That he’s been sitting there entertaining puerile fantasies about those hands and that umbrella while they are supposed to be having civilized and friendly _tea_. Really, his lack of self-control is appalling. But Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind.

“Everyone saw you walk in here. It’ll be obvious to anyone even half awake what we’re about.”

“Yes.” Mycroft takes one step to his left so that he is directly behind Harry. "It will." The canopy scrapes slightly along his hip as Mycroft pulled his trousers and pants down just below his arse.

“This is bad idea. Heralding cocaine as a medical miracle bad.”

Laughing softly, Mycroft digs the hook end of the handle into his pelvis and exerts just enough pressure to swing Harry around to face him. He takes a step back. “But it was your idea, old friend.” Harry an hour ago would have said that he was much too seasoned to lose possession of himself this quickly, but then he didn’t expect to be standing in bathroom with his pants around his knees. The handle is back in Mycroft’s palm, and he brings the horn ferrule to rest _just_ to the inside of Harry’s pelvic bone. Mycroft’s other hand is resting easy in his trouser pocket, and he looks like he would be happy to stand here all day inspecting him, the umbrella the only line of contact between them. In spite of himself, Harry feels the color rise in his cheeks.

“I will, of course, stop if you wish.” The tip trails gradually inwards, and he is half-hard already. Mycroft allows the umbrella to swing back to his side and down to the tile with an audible rap, and Harry’s hips twitch again, traitorously, as one hand finds the wall next to him.

He’s clearly waiting for something, and Harry casts about the bathroom in search of inspiration before giving up. “Mycroft, what the devil are we doing?”

“Really, Harry.” He folds his hands atop the handle again, contriving to look almost disappointed. “ _I_ am making sure you wish to proceed. Then _you_ are going to come as quietly as possible. Unless you’ve resigned yourself to our fellow patrons knowing all about it, in which case, do be as loud as you like.”

Harry has a sudden image of the varied post-pub crowd who’d been seated around them hovering outside the lavatory door and providing a running commentary on his performance. Mycroft probably doesn’t plan on helping him keep silent. “Right...Fine.”

“If you’re quite certain?” But the umbrella, that extension of his arm, is already swinging back up. Mycroft presses down on his shoulder with the umbrella shaft, still folded snug in black canopy, and Harry sinks to his knees with a _thunk_.

Well. This is not a position he’s ever thought to find himself in, but Harry’s never been slow on the uptake, and no man has ever accused him of being a coward, so he reaches unhesitatingly for Mycroft’s flies. He knows how it works from the other end well enough.

His hands are batted to the side almost instantly. “No.” Before Harry can point out that he’s too much of a gentleman to expect to be getting off by himself, the umbrella is back at his crotch. He sucks in a breath.

Mycroft finds the narrow gap between his pants and his bollocks and slowly nudges the shaft of the umbrella down past his cock until the ferrule is resting on the floor, wedged in between his thighs and his clothing. There’s barely room in the tangle of clothes and limbs, and the polyester is cool along the side of his cock, which is steadily filling.

Harry stares down in consternation. “You’re not going to...”

When he looks back up, Mycroft is amused. “Get you off with it.” He says the words as if he’s repeating someone else’s quotation. “Of course not. I’m not going to do anything.”

He can’t be serious. Harry flushes and his eyes fix mechanically on the trash can. The idea of Mycroft standing there watching him while he...well. He shifts uncertainly and the umbrella inevitably grazes his dick.

Of course Harry winds up looking back down at the umbrella, and the way his cock is darkening next to it. The tie over the canopy hangs loose, and he remembers watching Mycroft’s fingers snugging down the ribs and canopy, securing it firmly, or watching him absently running the entire length through his hands, looking bored, and it’s an easy sidestep to imagine those hands along his dick. He’s still embarrassed when he starts to move, because when he dares to glance up, eyes trailing up the umbrella and onward, up Mycroft’s arm to his face, Mycroft is still just

“...watching?”

“Beg pardon?” His tea was going cold, and Harry compensated by taking an overly large swig.

Mycroft eyed him over the table. “I asked which equestrian event you were most looking forward to watching. Really, it’s kind of you to listen to me go on about dressage, but if it bores you, surely we’ve known each other long enough for you to say so.”

“Oh by no means. I’m quite fond of riding. Tempt you to another cuppa?”

Mycroft hooked the umbrella on his chair back, waving Harry back into his seat as he obliged, and Harry allowed himself to eyeball the offending object severely. _Harry, You are nearly fifty years old and utterly ridiculous._ He wondered again what it was about Mycroft and his accessories that drove him to distraction this way, when he led a fairly straight and vanilla sex life. He watched, chin in hand, as Mycroft rocked on his heels at the counter, looking out of place. Time was when Mycroft would have been less in danger of the terrible lighting accentuating his receding hairline, but then, Harry's own hair was none too thick. And there was much to be said for the confidence with which Mycroft carried himself and the familiarity Harry had come to have with the line of his cheek, the angle of his wrist.

He came back, hands steady as the rest of him as he set down the tea, and shuffled the umbrella back out of his way. “Penny for them.”

Harry leaned back in his seat. “Oh, I was just thinking that we’re getting old.”

Mycroft grinned. “That is true of everyone. You don’t plan to let it stop you, I hope?”

Harry lifted his tea in a brief salute. “Perish the thought.”

No, he was quite content to keep thinking about the bones in Mycroft’s hands, and the way they wouldn’t be strange at all wrapped around him. The tea disappeared. Soon they would head back out the door and get on with their day. They drag out the conversation down the street, as far as the corner, reluctant to part ways, and the downpour catches them by surprise. Laughing, they duck up against the nearest wall and then, in deference to the wind, around the corner into an alley, as Mycroft unties the canopy and slides the runner up into place. Black shield now firmly above him, Mycroft realizes that Harry has been caught out and politely attempts to hold his umbrella somewhere vaguely over the point where their shoulders brush. The effort is doomed to failure but at least somewhat aided by the wall behind him. Harry’s back is getting steadily soaked, and he crowds closer, already dreading having to get to work in a wet suit, or worse, having to waste time detouring to change only to then venture back into the damp.

Now _Mycroft,_ on the other hand. Mycroft looking like a drowned rat would be amusing, he thinks, eying his friend who has somehow nestled up against the wall without actually touching it. Aside from the drops darkening the fabric of his suit jacket around the shoulders and a few on his face and hair, Mycroft could easily be standing in Buckingham Palace, unruffled as ever.

Harry places a palm in the center of his chest and presses him back until he hits the wall.

“What are you doing?”

His hand dips automatically, dropping the umbrella a touch as it scrapes against the wall, and Harry uses his other hand to steady Mycroft’s elbow. “You’ll want to keep that there if you want to stay dry.”

The eyebrow arch speaks volumes, and Harry realizes ruefully that even the kiss is going to be no surprise at all to Mycroft. His hand slides up to tug at the knot in Mycroft’s necktie, other hand already flicking open Mycroft’s waistcoat. Mycroft’s left hand has drifted to his hip, tugging him closer.

“Really, we’re terribly exposed here.” He feels the words against his lips as much as hears them, but nudging a thigh against Mycroft proves the protest is token.

He presses his answer into Mycroft's mouth. ”Are you telling me you can’t delete the CCTV footage later?” That’s going to be very necessary, since he’s moved on to belt and button, fingers fumbling. He steadies himself with his other hand against the wall and starts working lingering, open-mouthed kisses down the line of Mycroft’s throat. Mycroft’s head tilts invitingly back against the wall and the umbrella slips sideways.

“Well...I’m sure something could be arranged. In the event of an emergency.” Mycroft rucks his shirt and vest up out of his trousers and skims his palm along Harry’s back. The rain slicks his skin and trickles down below his belt, and Mycroft’s hand leaves a warm trail through the water as it moves upward and then back down to tug at his arse. Distracted by the fine hairs at Mycroft’s collar bone, it takes him a minute to pull his own cock out, and by the time he does, Harry is fiercely glad he and Mycroft are nearly of a height.

Mycroft must agree, because when he reaches to take them both in hand, Mycroft groans, “Don’t bother. Just--” He jerks Harry closer, and--giving up all pretensions to presentability, fumbles his arms around Harry’s back. He laughs as random ends of the umbrella ribs dig into his legs but obliges, bracing himself on the wall and lining himself up between Mycroft’s legs.

The friction doesn’t begin any more smoothly than the rest of it, but it’s affectionate, and slow, and Harry is torn between watching the expressions pass over Mycroft’s face and watching their cocks slide past each other. Soon Mycroft is leaking precum. Harry drops his forehead onto Mycroft’s chest and slows down further just to watch it seep out. He reaches down to rub a thumb over the slit, smearing it over the head, and Mycroft’s breath hitches as he rolls upward. “Harry. _Please._ ”

Harry tugs down Mycroft’s pants a bit more and reaches down to roll his balls in his hand before stroking back up. Mycroft moans and follows him, rising up on toes in his black leather shoes. He wraps his hand around both of them now, stroking faster and spreading fluid down to his own balls and back up. Mycroft’s hand burrows into his pants, digging into his arse, and Harry is suddenly _horrified_ to hear footsteps over the sounds of their breathing. The sun is barely up and it’s still pissing down, but they are less than a meter from the main street and couldn’t put themselves to rights if they tried. “Shit. Mycroft.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” And, God help him, all Harry manages is to bury his head in the crook of Mycroft’s neck, still helplessly thrusting, as the footsteps come closer and then freeze.

“Oh. Oh my. I’ll just...keep going then.” It is a woman’s voice, but for a moment her footsteps refuse to resume.

“We’d be much obliged, madam,” Mycroft drawls.

“Oh god, oh god.” The sound of heels click off rapidly into the distance, and Harry is once again smothering a laugh. The umbrella finally clatters to the pavement and Mycroft’s other hand clutches at his belt. Seconds later he is coming over Harry’s fingers and cock. Harry plants his hand back on the wall and kisses Mycroft again. He all but ruts into the mess, chasing his orgasm, and when one of Mycroft’s long fingers dives into the cleft of his arse, he tips over.

Slow, easy kisses and the returning awareness of the rain running down his hair and into the crevices of clothes accompany the slowing of his pulse, and as he pulls back, Harry is delighted to find that the sight of Mycroft is _better_ than a drowned rat. Everything but his shirt is hanging open, his tie pin is nowhere to be seen, and his hair is askew. Mycroft leans back against the wall, still breathing hard, and although Harry has never seen him look this wrecked, there is not an inch of him that is not somehow still well-known and comfortable. He steps back only to hear the crunch of metal and polyester beneath his heel.

The ring of Mycroft’s mobile brought him back to earth. “Pardon me.” Mycroft stood to take the call. He returned only moments later, but the look on his face told Harry that they were finished for the day. “My apologies, but it looks as though my day is starting early.”

“I completely understand. I owe you a book. For next time.” He shoved his chair back.

Mycroft smiled. “I’m going to get something deathly dull about sports, aren’t I?”

Harry laughed. “I might surprise you--you never know.” They wended their way in step to the door and paused on the pavement to shake hands again. “It _was_ very good to see you, Mycroft. I know how busy you are.”

“Anything to oblige a friend, Harry.” Mycroft’s mouth curled into a half-smile. “I _always_ enjoy our conversations.” Then he pivoted and set off to toward the car already idling at the kerb. He twirled the umbrella in lazy circles at his side, and Harry allowed himself an extra moment--just the one--to watch him go.


End file.
